Caedes and Yaaroghkh had made their base under a bridge. There were two reasons for this. The first is that this made them phenomenally hard to track. The second is that sleeping under a bridge is phenomenally comfy.

I do not, of course, mean “under the bridge” in the sense of the apparent (er, phenomenal) portion under the bridge itself. That is wet, and cold, and would be intensely unpleasant to sleep upon. I mean under the bridge in the sense of the magical otherworld which is, literally if not discernibly, under the bridge. These are gorgeous fields, and forests, and gullies, with soft moss and birdsong, and they are very cosy indeed.

This is the home of the bridge trolls, who guard the bridge and charge the tolls. In the old, old days, they used to sing music under the earth; in the old days, when the Internet still existed, they used to ask people riddles and sing silly songs, and this was called “trolling” (excepting among some very silly people, who sullied its good name); but now there was no Internet, and no one to appreciate music, so they lived in their hollows under the earth and made music and told riddles to each other, and no more bothered with man and his problems.

Now the bridge troll who kept the bridge on Poppycock Street was special. His name was Lug, and he was a craftsy type. Knitting, carving, baking, winemaking… None of them a noteworthy feat in and of themselves, save that uniquely among all the trolls he wanted someone to share them with. Years ago, he had himself wandered up to the fields we know, and as luck would have it had chanced not upon the usual run of rot and ruin but upon a rather sweet and charming girl.

At the time she had been trying to present a hand-knitted sweater to Jack O’Lantern, that mediaeval spirit who was cursed to wander the land for all time, carrying a coal in a turnip between Heaven and Hell. She had seen him last All Hallows’ Eve, howling his grief out to the stars, and was worried he was cold as he wandered through the wind and the rain and the dark and the cold.

But it is one thing to knit a sweater for a fairytale creature, and quite another to track a fairytale creature down. She had been seeking him in vain for some time, and by the time she came upon Lug - recently popped up from his hole, with fresh scones - she was nearing the end of her endurance. Lug gave her scones and encouragement, and helped her with his knowledge of the secret paths by which fey creatures travel, until at last she was able to give Jack O’Lantern her sweater. After that, well… he made the best scones east of the Cotswolds, and one thing led to another, and…

(Remembering that west of the Cotswolds is still east of the Cotswolds, going backwards.)

By sheer good fortune, not only was she Lug’s wife, but she was also the cousin of a close friend of Caedes, and being sympathetic to his cause the pair let him roost at their house during especially strenuous missions. They were especially delighted with Yaaroghkh - he appreciated a good cookie - and so it was that some hours after their travail in the sewers we find our (freshly bathed, clothing laundered) heroes supping on scones on a mossy riverbank in a beautiful underground forest. Lug and his wife were gone - they were visiting their friends, three billy goat spirit beasts who lived nearby - and our heroes could plan their next steps in peace, overseen only by the chthonic butterflies.

They were discussing their plan to preserve the Spirit of Christmas, festively. I cannot recount all the details of their plan - some, I have been sworn to secrecy on, and others I don’t know, for they used the Pspspsps Technique to communicate when they did not want me to hear. I can, however, tell you that part of their master plan to preserve the Spirit of Christmas festively involved holding a festival. Yaaroghkh had been horrified to learn the mayoral council had forced the mayor to dispose of Christmas celebrations some years back, citing ‘wasteful expenditures,’ and had decided to bring them back, and bring them back with a blast.

To this end the pair had decided to recruit some additional members to their little impromptu gang, to hold a party in the streets outside of Das Gleiche’s headquarters (thereby acting as a distraction) while they themselves snuck back into the corporation (whence to do, I know not what).

This, of course, had raised the question of how to find new members. Caedes had looked a little worried here - in fact, the elf thought he’d looked queasy since after they got back - but Yaaroghkh was confident, and it was a question that he had quickly quashed.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

“It is not only Santa who keeps the list, nor only he who can check it twice. The Naughty or Nice Secret Technique is known to all the elves - and to many other good spirits, such as the Blue Fairy - and it is a matter of consummate ease for us to find good children, who might help us save Christmas. Behold-”

Caedes blanched at the words ‘good children.’ Not that he didn’t love children, but there were already enough Content Warnings on this story and the last thing he wanted to do was add more - or, worse, give the Author fuel to make tasteless jokes when the children proved to be precisely as useless as one might reasonably expect. Unfortunately the elf was faster than he was, and before Caedes could stop him had begun to dance and sing insanely, chanting cryptic and aeonian rhymes from the ancient lands of long ago:

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star,

How I wonder what you are!

Up above the world so high,

Like a diamond in the sky.

As he sang and danced a map spread out from under his feet, whirling in circles into the sky above. The map had the appearance of being old and wrinkled but was clearly of the City of Tombstones. Each street, building, bus route, and canal was clearly identified and delineated in black ink upon the brown would-be-paper. Laid out upon it were pinpricks of light, sparkling like diamonds at irregular intervals.

When he finished, there was a light visible for every good child in the City of Tombstones. I am sorry to say there were not many of them, not when the millions of people who lived in the city were taken into account, but there were yet enough to bring down one measly corporation. He clapped his hands triumphantly. "Beautiful - and now, to remove every child under the age of eighteen."

"Right, so I was thinking- wait, what?"

"What do you mean, what? You weren't planning to fight cultivators with six year olds, were you? Even if they were matchless geniuses, I think that's a bit much."

“Well, no, but…didn’t you say ‘children’?”

“Of course I did. It’s the finest measure of character, to be a good child - and a good child is anyone who carries the true meaning of the Spirit of Christmas within their breast, which as you may know means you’re a child at heart no matter how old your body may be.” The elf said, toggling an invisible switch in the air and causing seventy percent of the stars to vanish from existence.

“The true meaning…what, like, the importance of family?”

The elf cast him a withering look (without, however, moving his head). “The importance of family? You are aware that the man whose birth we’re celebrating died a virgin, without a wife or kids, yes?”

The elf pushed several other invisible buttons, causing lines of script to appear under some of the stars. The script twisted strangely, its characters bent at unaccountable angles and in ways highly discomfiting to the eyes.

“No, at the crux of the matter is that a good child is anyone who has realised, to the depths of their soul, that in the very darkest night, at the depth of the year, is born the Light.”

He removed a notebook from a pockmark, recording some details, and nodding. “I’ve added some parameters to the map to fit the plan we discussed. There are four people we should meet. The first one can be found…”

And suddenly Caedes felt extremely tired. It was that strange, inexplicable fatigue one feels deep in one’s bones at moments of extreme stress, and whose commonness among cultivators had prompted him - it felt like years ago - to make that joke about the Tropic of Cultivation. A joke, in part, but partly serious, for this state of exhaustion was common enough among cultivators - like its “curing” with alchemical pills - to warrant some remark. Caedes had tried to avoid this bad habit himself, but now something within him buckled, and he cursed himself as his weariness momentarily shone through.

“Are you alright? You don’t look so good.” Yaaroghkh asked with concern.

“Y-yeah. Sorry, what were you saying?” Caedes replied, running a hand over his face.

“…I was saying you ought to take a break, tomorrow.” Yaaroghkh said, using his primordial wisdom to guess what Caedes was feeling. “You may be more ‘approachable’ than I am in a general sense, but it’s a different matter here, when it comes to Christmas. You look awful, and anyways you’re helping me - it’s not your job - so your obligation is lesser than mine, if it exists at all.”

Caedes was about to protest, but he saw that the elf was firm, and anyways a day off would do him good. He sighed. “Fine. I’ll take the day and visit my girlfriend.”

Yaaroghkh’s eyes widened as Caedes dropped the ‘g’ word, a legend even among elves - he’d never have guessed the man was dating, although his tone was affectionate as he said the word - but he said nothing, maintaining the stoic attitude of a nurse.

“Good; so I’ll find the first good child, and you’ll visit your girlfriend. That’s settled then.” Settled, and shaken upon, not that it did Caedes much good when he was lying in bed that night. He tossed and turned in his sheets, cursing his moral feebleness and clutching at his head.

“God, Caedes, what are you doing with yourself?”